Corporal Lancer, 83rd Indiana (8th in the Vicksburg series)
by PollyVictorian
Summary: Scott gets a taste of the reality of war.


"Corporal Lancer, we seem to have a couple of stragglers. Find them and bring them back up with the company, will you?"  
>"Yes, Sergeant." Scott saluted and turned to set off after the "stragglers". Sergeant Cassidy hadn't needed to name names; Scott knew it was the Lewis brothers who had taken undue advantage of the ten minute spell given to the soldiers of the 83rd Indiana Infantry. Not that they were the only ones to have straggled over the past five days of marching. Footsore, thirsty or just plain tired out, soldiers would drop out of line to tend their blistered feet or rest their backs from the weight of their knapsacks. The officers were surprisingly lenient. So long as the men rejoined the ranks in a reasonable time, a blind eye was turned. But the Lewis boys had been making a habit of it, sometimes lagging well behind the rest of the troops, and Sergeant Cassidy had started to draw the line.<p>

As the rest of the company resumed the march, Scott surveyed the area, trying to guess where Jed and Joe might have gone. A stand of trees about a quarter of a mile off seemed to him the most likely place and he headed in that direction. As he neared the trees, his nose confirmed that his hunch had been correct – the aroma of brewing coffee was unmistakeable.

"Hey, Scott," one of the twins greeted him. "We thought someone might be coming after us, so we made enough for three. Here, have some."  
>Scott was tempted. The downpour that had caught them as they camped beside Coldwater Creek the previous night had been too much for the army issue shelter tents. The rain had leaked in where the two halves of the tent joined, soaking the occupants and making for a poor night's sleep, and there had been no time to dry anything out before setting off on their day's march. Like most of the other soldiers, Scott's clothing was still damp and the chill of this last day of November was seeping through him. Everything inside him screamed for that coffee, but Scott knew that drinking any would put him in collusion with the malefactors. As an officer, even though the lowest rank of NCO, he couldn't do that.<br>"No thanks," he said. "Douse that fire and let's get moving."  
>"Taking a little extra time won't hurt," the other twin replied. Neither of them moved.<br>"Getting too far away from the main body might. We're in enemy territory now, remember." Scott was getting exasperated.  
>"Ahh, there's not a Rebel in sight," the first twin – Scott was pretty sure it was Jed – dismissed the protest.<br>"It's not the ones in sight you have to worry about, it's the ones out of sight," Scott replied. "There could be guerrilla bands roaming about. It would only take one sniper with two bullets and Company L would be less a couple of men."  
>"Nice of you to be so concerned about us." Jed was still grinning.<br>"I don't care about you particularly," Scott informed him, and by now he really didn't. "If you want to get killed, that's your business. But the company's already down in numbers, with the men we left in the hospital back in Memphis." And in the graveyard, his mind added the unbidden thought. "Come on, the longer we delay, the faster we'll have to move to catch up."

After all, it didn't take the three men long to catch up with their company. Between the mud underfoot and their own weariness, the soldiers weren't moving at a fast pace. Jed and Joe tagged onto the end of the line and Scott went forward to report to Sergeant Cassidy.  
>"Stragglers accounted for, sir." Off duty, Dan Cassidy and Scott Lancer had a friendship that put them on first name basis but on duty, Scott was punctilious in the protocol due to a superior officer. He was coming to appreciate the value of army discipline, especially over these last days of marching when close to a thousand men had to be kept organized and safe from surprise enemy action.<p>

The soldiers trudged on through the afternoon. Dusk was drawing in when at last the order came to halt and make camp. Scott pulled his half of the shelter tent out of his knapsack. The fabric was still damp and he and Tice struggled to get the two halves buttoned together. Beside them, Cal and Rick were struggling likewise. Finally, the tents were pitched and made as secure as possible on the muddy ground and the men were able to start preparing their much needed hot food and coffee.  
>"Sure you and Scott don't want to do the cooking for us?" Cal asked his cousin. "You were doing such a good job as company cooks back in camp."<br>"That was in camp," Tice replied. "On the march it's carry your own rations, cook your own rations, eat your own rations."  
>"Guess you'll have to burn your sowbelly yourself, Cal," said Rick, dodging as his pal took a swipe at him.<br>"To hear you talk, you'd think your cooking was any better," Cal retorted, dodging in his turn.  
>But the banter and joking didn't go on for long tonight. Except for the unlucky ones on picket duty, the men crawled into their tents soon after their supper was finished. To the weary soldiers, even the damp blankets on the muddy ground had an irresistible appeal.<br>The bugle for lights out was a welcome sound.

Scott was woken by the slap of wet canvas on his face. He heard the howl of the wind as the tent started flapping around him. Tice was sitting up, trying to grab hold of the canvas panels but a furious gust lifted the whole tent and a moment later it was flying through the air to land a few yards away. Scott saw Cal and Rick scrambling after their own tent and judging by the shouts and curses from all parts of the cornfield where the troops had pitched their camp, most of the soldiers were in the same predicament.

Tice managed to retrieve their tent before it blew too far but the wind had increased to a gale that made re-erecting the tents an impossibility. Scott heard Dan shouting something but all he could make out through the wind's shriek was "Hunker down!" It seemed like good advice – and anyway, there was nothing else to be done. Scott, Tice, Cal and Rick huddled together, holding the canvas of the tents over them for some protection. It was a good couple of hours before the wind subsided enough for them to attempt to get back to sleep. They didn't bother trying to get the tents back up – just spread their blankets on the ground and got what shut-eye they could.

"How far are we going to be marching today, Dan?" Scott asked as the bedraggled and bleary-eyed men sat around the fire eating breakfast.  
>"About twelve miles. We're headed for the Tallahatchie River," Dan answered.<br>"And what then?"  
>"We wait for orders," Dan replied with a grin.<br>"I suppose I should have known," Scott conceded.

Twelve miles. Twelve miles stumbling along over ground littered with branches and debris from last night's storm. Twelve miles of watching for stragglers and urging them back into line. A brief halt at noon to drink as much coffee as he could pour down his throat to try to keep awake, then back on the march. Twelve miles – could have been twenty, could have been a hundred.

At last Lieutenant Mallory pointed ahead to where a ribbon of water was just visible.  
>"That's the Tallahatchie River, men," he said. "We'll camp there tonight."<br>Camp – the word was like a tonic to the soldiers. There was no straggling as they pushed on over the last mile to make their camp on the banks of the Tallahatchie.  
>"Wonder what'll keep us awake tonight?" said Tice as they pitched their tent.<br>"Anything short of an earthquake won't wake me up," declared Scott, "and even that would have to be a powerful one."

Reveille brought the soldiers out of their tents to see a light powdering of snow covering the ground.  
>"At least it didn't wake us up," said Tice.<p>

At morning roll call, Sergeant Stevenson issued the orders for the day.  
>"Collect hatchets and axes from the equipment wagon. One detail to clear the brush from along the river bank, another to start felling trees."<br>"Felling trees, Sergeant?" Scott couldn't keep from voicing the query.  
>"Yes, Corporal Lancer, we have to get across the river."<br>The answer left Scott even more puzzled.  
>"How do we get across the river? There's no bridge in sight."<br>"Exactly, Corporal. The Rebels have destroyed all the bridges so we're going to build a new one."  
>First cooking beans, thought Scott, now building bridges. Strange, he'd been under the impression he'd joined up to fight the enemy. He must gave got the wrong idea.<p>

Scott's arms ached. His wrists ached. His back ached. His hands were blistered. He certainly hadn't pictured felling timber as one of his future duties when he enlisted but he was in charge of the detail and he wouldn't ask his men to do something he wouldn't do himself. Truth to tell, he was probably the slowest worker of them all – most of the Western boys had had experience of chopping firewood, at least, but Scott had never held an axe in his hands before – but he knew he earned a quiet respect by not resting on his rank. He straightened up and stretched for a moment to try to ease his tortured muscles, then picked up his axe again and got back to work.

His back was still aching on the evening of the second day by the Tallahatchie, when the final securing of the timber bridge was completed.  
>"We built that!" Dan Cassidy came up to stand beside Scott as he gazed at the new structure.<br>"So we did," Scott said. Dan threw an arm over Scott's shoulders.  
>"If the 83rd wants to cross a river, a few Rebels blowing up bridges won't stop us!" the sergeant declared.<br>"You bet they won't!" Scott started to catch a little of Cassidy's enthusiasm. He looked at the new river crossing once more. Building a bridge might not be what he'd expected to do when he became a soldier but now he felt a surge of pride welling up.  
>"It's a good bridge," he said.<p>

The backache had gone altogether by the following morning, when the 83rd Indiana set out on the next stage of their march, crossing the Tallahatchie on the good bridge they themselves had made.

LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Scott could tell something was wrong as Cal, just come off picket duty, approached him.  
>"Private Hardy and Private Baxter haven't been relieved yet, Corporal," Private Stewart reported.<br>"I'll see to it, Cal," Scott answered. He felt the annoyance rising as he went to round up the shirkers. It was the Lewis boys again, of course. It didn't seem to matter whether the troops were on the march or in camp, someone had to stand over that pair to make sure they were where they were supposed to be.

They had no excuse; Scott had alerted them along with the other soldiers due to take over on picket. It was an unpopular duty because of its sheer boredom – two hours of staying alert while nothing happened – but it was the only one the soldiers had had to carry out in the three days since crossing the Tallahatchie and setting up camp here beside an abandoned saw mill six miles from the river. The other men had grumbled as a matter of form but had gone to take their turn. It was only these two who were lingering in camp somewhere. Was this what he had enlisted for, Scott thought, to play nursemaid to a couple of lazy… he brought himself under control. Getting angry would only give them the edge over him.  
>"Jed! Joe! You're supposed to be on picket duty. Get a move on," Scott ordered the two men still sitting beside their fire.<br>"We're going, Scott. Rick won't mind waiting a few minutes," Jed responded, picking up the coffee pot that was standing in the embers.  
>"Private Hardy is entitled to be relieved at the end of his stint and so is Private Baxter. And Baxter might not be as easy on you as Rick." It was true – Venn Baxter was noted in the company for his mean temper.<br>"Alright, alright, we're coming," Joe said, leaning forward to pour the dregs from his coffee cup onto the fire. At the same moment, Jed tipped out the contents of the coffee pot. Joe gave a howl of pain as the scalding coffee fell onto his hand.  
>"Joe! Hell, I'm sorry! Here, let me see." Jed's distress was evident as he reached for his brother's hand. Scott could see the skin turning a harsh red on Joe's wrist and hand and Joe's face was twisted into a grimace of pain.<p>

"Get over to the hospital and get a dressing put on that, Joe," Scott ordered. "Not you, Jed!" he added as Jed made to accompany his brother. "You're on picket duty."  
>"But…" Jed started<br>"No buts! It's Joe that's hurt, not you. On duty!" Scott stood and watched while Jed picked up his musket and headed toward the picket line. He could understand – and even envied – the brothers' devotion to one another, but at times they seemed to forget that they were two different people. It was as if what happened to one, happened to both.

Scott collected his own musket and himself headed for the picket line. As duty corporal, it was up to him to take Joe's place.  
>"Sorry about the delay, Venn," Scott said to Private Baxter as he took over the position. "Joe Lewis had an accident." He decided to let Venn think that the accident had caused the delay. Better than having ill-will amongst the men.<br>"Couldn't be helped, then," Baxter replied. He saluted and stomped off.

Scott looked around as he took up the post. To his right he could just see Tice patrolling his section of the line. To his left, Jed Lewis was finally relieving Rick. He checked his musket and ammunition and settled in for the stretch of boredom.

It must have been about half an hour later and the early dusk of the December afternoon was closing in when he thought he saw movement in a clump of bushes a hundred yards or so away. He peered in that direction, trying to ascertain what, if anything, it was. There were stories in plenty of pickets shooting at a raccoon, or an owl, or a shadow. He didn't want to make a mistake … there it was again. And was that a glint of metal? He trained his musket on the clump of bushes, his heart pounding. All was still for a few seconds then the flash and boom of the enemy's rifle shattered the stillness. Scott fired almost without thinking then knelt to reload. Another musket sounded from his right – that must be Tice. He reloaded swiftly, the hours of musket drill making their benefit felt. As he raised his musket once more, there was another flash from the bushes and he felt a searing pain in his left shoulder but managed to fire off the second shot in the enemy's direction. Again his shot was echoed by one from Tice, then a figure jumped down beside him – Sergeant Stevenson. Scott felt a surge of relief as the older NCO took command, adding his own musket shot to the assault on the enemy sniper.

But all had gone silent from the stand of bushes. Sergeant Stevenson reloaded his musket and moved forward, staying close to the ground. He signalled Scott and Tice to follow. Cautiously the three men edged toward the bushes but there was no further sign from the enemy. When they reached the bushes, they saw a Confederate soldier lying sprawled on the ground, his clothing splattered with blood and a part of his head blown off.

"Looks like it was just one, but there might be more of them not far off," said Sergeant Stevenson. "Private McRae, back to your post. Corporal Lancer, report to the hospital and get that wound tended to. I'll take over the position."  
>"Yes, sir." Scott saluted, becoming fully aware for the first time of the pain in his shoulder and the blood seeping through his sleeve.<br>"And Lancer, McRae," the sergeant added, "well done, both of you."

The camp was abuzz with excitement as Scott returned. Lieutenant Mallory was ordering extra guards onto picket duty and rumors were flying already. The men flocked around Scott but Dan Cassidy waved them off, lending a steadying hand as he walked with Scott to the log cabin that had been taken over as a hospital. Scott was glad of Dan's presence. Reaction was setting in and his legs were starting to shake.

"Only a flesh wound," Dr Vincent was reassuring as he bathed and bandaged the furrow in Scott's shoulder. "The bullet just grazed the skin as it went past – barely touched the muscle. We'll keep you in here tonight, though, just to keep an eye on it."  
>"Oh no, sir. I'd rather go back to my company, if you don't mind. I'll come back first thing in the morning." Scott spoke quickly and Dr Vincent didn't pursue the point. The young soldier was still a bundle of nerves, despite the medicinal shot of whiskey the doctor had administered. No point agitating him more than necessary.<p>

As he made his way back to Company L's street, Scott was thankful the doctor hadn't insisted on him staying. Like the hospital in Camp Ben Spooner, this one was full. Dysentery and camp fever were taking their toll here as in Memphis and while a bunk in the log cabin would be more comfortable, Scott would rather have the blanket in his tent than spend the night in that oppressive atmosphere of sickness – and death.

Tice had come off duty by the time Scott got back and the soldiers of Company L crowded around the two of them, eager for details of this first encounter with the enemy. Only Jed Lewis kept out of the way, and Scott found himself wondering: What had Jed been doing while that sniper was firing at them? He hadn't had time to think about it before but now Scott realized he hadn't heard any shots from where Jed had been posted. Had Jed fired his musket at all?

Scott was thankful to head for his tent when tattoo sounded. He hadn't been able to join in the excitement of the rest of the men. Tice, too, had been serious while the others had chattered on, answering the questions briefly but not expanding on the incident, to his comrades' disappointment.

The two friends were silent as they crawled into their tent and prepared for sleep. It was unusual – the quarter of an hour between tattoo and lights out was generally a time for talk and a joke or two but tonight neither of them had anything to say as they spread their blankets and settled down.  
>It was Tice who finally spoke the words they both were thinking.<br>"I wonder which one of us killed him?"  
>"It could have been either. We'll never know."<br>"I guess it's what we joined up for – to kill Rebels."  
>"You're right. To kill – like hired gunfighters." Scott voiced the bitter thought that had been eating at him.<br>"Gunfighters? Come on, Scott, it's nothing like that." Tice managed a half smile as he added, "I'm not here for the money, that's for sure. Are you?"  
>"No," Scott gave a laugh in spite of himself. "You're right, of course. I suppose it's just that when I enlisted, I knew I was signing up to fight but I hadn't really thought about what it meant."<br>"Same here," said Tice. "Guess we know now."  
>Lights out put a stop to the talk but Scott lay awake for a while, the pain in his shoulder keeping him from sleep while images of the dead Rebel soldier with a shattered face drifted through his mind. Firing the shots which - maybe - ended that soldier's life had been his duty. It was what he had enlisted for.<p>

He was here to fight. And fighting meant killing.


End file.
